by Anthony Ryan
—
The Imperial Museum of Antiquities was situated in the middle ring of the concentric, circular arrangement of buildings forming the centre of Morsvale. In common with the architecture Lizanne had witnessed so far, every building was of archaic construction and would have benefited from some organised maintenance; tall marble columns stood partly blackened by accumulated soot and she saw more than a few cracked window-panes sitting in rotting frames. The district was home to the town’s administrative and military headquarters and known, without apparent irony, as “The Imperial Ring.” However, amongst the Burgrave’s servants, and Lizanne assumed most other commoners, it was better known as “The Emperor’s Arse.”
“Krista’s taking the Horror to the Arse today,” Kalla commented over breakfast, a meal eaten a good hour before the Burgrave and Tekela rose from bed. “Gonna see that museum fop keeps mooning over her. Can’t think why, she’s never gonna marry the poor sod.” She bit into a crumpet and gave Misha a nudge. “’Member that night he climbed the garden wall and started singing up at her window? Had flowers and everything. She threw her piss-pot at him.”
The two maids shared a giggle then quieted at Madam Meeram’s disapproving frown. “You know the rule, girls. No gossip at this table.”
“Yes, Madam,” they replied in unison.
“You’ll have to take a cab, I’m afraid,” Meeram told Lizanne, gesturing to the empty chair where Rigan normally sat. “My son is off pursuing his maritime ambitions once again.”
“The Burgrave signed his letter?” Lizanne asked.
“No, but we are acquainted with a senior supervisor in the Custom House. Rigan believes his signature may carry sufficient weight to facilitate entry to the Naval Academy.”
“He wants to be an officer?” Lizanne was surprised. The Imperial Armed Forces were notorious for their snobbery and rarely gave commissions to members of the lower orders, and certainly not to servants.
“Ambition will be the boy’s ruin.” Meeram sighed. “His father was the same. Always signing up with some expedition or other, each one supposedly destined to yield more profit than the last. Rigan was five years old when he went off on the last one. We haven’t seen him since.”
“I’ve heard many tales of the Interior,” Lizanne said, frowning in sympathy. “It holds countless dangers, so they say.”
“Not for the Burgrave,” Kalla said around another mouthful of crumpet. “Him and the handsome major go off expeditioning every year.”
“Really?” Lizanne asked. “Didn’t have the Burgrave down as an adventurous type.”
“It’s just a few weeks when the wet season ends,” Meeram said. “The Burgrave believes it refreshes him for the year ahead.”
“Misha thinks they’re off treasure hunting,” Kalla said, nudging her companion once more. “Don’tcha?”
The maid gave a tremulous smile in Lizanne’s direction. “They had a map spread out yesterday,” she said in her barely audible voice. “Saw them going over it in the study when I came for the tea-tray.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re looking for treasure,” Lizanne said. “Could just be working out their route for the next trip.”
“They was talking when I came in,” the girl replied. “Saying that’s the best place to look for it. Anyway”—she gave Kalla a brief scowl—“was Rigan said it might be a treasure map, not me. Don’t wanna poke my nose in the Burgrave’s business.”
“A creditable attitude,” Meeram said, a note of finality in her voice. “One we would all do well to emulate.”
There was no map in the hidden compartment, Lizanne recalled. Diran did pass on his latest jottings though . . . Uncle Diran who works at the museum. The handsome major came bearing his most recent contribution to the Burgrave’s scholarly endeavours, meaning it’s likely still in the house.
—
“Whatever you do,” Tekela said as the cab pulled up outside the museum, “don’t mention poetry, even if he asks you.”
A slender, dark-haired young man stood waiting for them on the museum steps. He was dressed in a newly bought suit, the collar tight about his neck and his hair carefully arranged and oiled. Despite his preparations, however, his youth and the nervous smile he offered Tekela made him resemble a boy playing dress-up.
“Tekela,” he said with a bow, voice betraying a slight quiver. “You have honoured me . . .”
“Yes, alright, Sirus,” she told him, Lizanne gaining the impression she was restraining an habitual scorn. She waved a hand at Lizanne. “This is Krista, my new girl.”
“My pleasure, miss.” Sirus bowed to her also, a significant breach of manners he clearly didn’t know he was making.
“Your note said something about jewellery,” Tekela said.
“Oh yes. A cache discovered in a grave-site on the west coast only a few months ago.”
“Grave-site?” Tekela’s mouth took on a curl of distaste. “You want to show me dead people’s jewels?”
“They’re remarkably well-preserved,” he assured her. “And the craftsmanship is extraordinary. Far above anything we’ve seen before. The expedition also found clay tablets engraved with writing. Such things have been unearthed elsewhere but never in so much quantity . . .”
“Fascinating,” Tekela interrupted in a tone that combined boredom with impatience.
“Well, I hope so.” Sirus turned and gestured at the museum door. “Shall we?”
The museum had a grand if besmirched edifice, tall columns supporting a triangular block of marble upon which a scene from Corvantine antiquity had been carved in relief. Lizanne recognised it as the Divination of Caranis the First, the moment some fifteen hundred years before when a senate-ruled commonwealth was transformed into an empire. The theme continued inside with numerous frescoes and statues, all depicting a somewhat one-sided view of Imperial history. There were battles aplenty but no massacres; happy crowds cheered victorious generals but none suffered starvation or torture. Naturally the revolutionary wars, the most important event in Corvantine history, were conspicuous by their absence.
She followed behind Tekela as Sirus led them along a broad, echoing hallway lined with paintings of monumental proportions. The young man made continual attempts to engage Tekela in conversation, his gambits ranging from enquiring after her father’s health to a commentary on the oddly inclement weather. She responded to it all with non-committal shrugs, Lizanne having warned her against any uncharacteristic displays of interest or affection.
“I sent flowers with my note,” he said, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. “I trust you got them.”
“You sent white roses,” Tekela replied. “They’re for funerals.”
“Oh.” His face clouded only for a second and Lizanne found herself admiring his resilience as he forced a smile and ploughed on. “Red next time then. Once my new verse is complete.”
Lizanne saw Tekela smother a caustic reply and take a calming breath. How bad can his poetry be? she wondered.
Sirus came to a halt before a set of solid double doors and extracted a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. It took a long moment’s fumbling before he managed to unlock the doors, swinging them wide as he bowed, flourishing his arm in an elaborate and practised gesture. “It is my honour to finally welcome you to my sanctum. I give you the vaults of the Imperial Collection of Arradsian Artifacts.”
Tekela just sniffed and marched through the doors with her nose raised. He’s far too good for you, Lizanne decided. Though you’ll probably be in your sixties before you realise it. Any amusement occasioned by the thought soon expired under the weight of another. You know the girl has to die . . .
The room beyond the doors was cavernous, their footsteps echoing through seemingly endless rows of stored curiosities. A variety of stuffed and mounted creatures stared out at Lizanne from behind glass cases alongside pinioned beetles of al
arming size. Beyond them were cabinets full of pottery shards and collections of shaped flint. Sirus led them through the maze of exhibits with accustomed speed, Lizanne making careful note of the route. So far she hadn’t caught sight of any guards but assumed that would change come nightfall.
“Here we are.” Sirus stopped at a tall wooden cabinet of many thin drawers. “I’ve just finished cataloguing all the finds. The Imperial Actuary will be round tomorrow to value it all.”
“So you won’t get to keep it?” Tekela asked.
“Some pieces will remain with us, no doubt. The less valuable, of course. The Emperor deserves his due.” The slight edge to Sirus’s voice as he said this made Lizanne wonder if he might share some sympathies with Burgrave Artonin.
“We’ll start with the sapphires, I think.” Sirus pulled one of the drawers from the cabinet, carefully setting it down on a near by table then removing the thin paper covering.
Lizanne managed to stifle her own reaction but Tekela gave an involuntary sound that was part awe and part greed. The necklace was arranged in a circle, a chain of silver adorned with four sapphires. The stones were set in ornate mountings of unfamiliar design, sharing no motifs with either Mandinorian or Corvantine craftsmanship. There was an appealing fluency to it, the individual links of the chain and the mountings moulded into twisting, organic forms, appearing almost to have grown around the stones.
“This was dug out of a grave?” Tekela asked, her hand reaching out to touch one of the sapphires as if drawn by some invisible magnetism.
“The grave of a female between eighteen and thirty years old,” Sirus said and Lizanne noted all hesitation had now left his voice. “Though the deformation of the bones made ascertaining the age difficult.”
“Deformation, sir?” Lizanne asked, then lowered her gaze at Tekela’s glare. Speaking out of turn was risky but curiosity was always her greatest vice. “Your pardon, miss,” she said.
“Oh it’s quite all right,” Sirus said, offering her a smile. “Yes, miss. The owner of this necklace was undoubtedly a member of what is commonly termed the Spoiled.”
“I thought the Spoiled were savages,” Tekela said, returning her hungry gaze to the necklace. “They couldn’t have made this, surely.”
“Our findings indicated they did, and much more besides. Whatever they are now, it seems they were something very different in the past.” He turned and extracted another drawer from the cabinet. This one held a bracelet of white gold inset with rubies and a clasp fashioned into a tiny and near-perfect facsimile of a drake’s head.
“The drake is a common motif in their designs,” Sirus said, seeing Lizanne’s interest. “Understandable, given they must have encountered them on a daily basis. Curiously, we have found no evidence that they hunted drakes; if anything the artifacts indicate a near-religious reverence.”
Tekela wasn’t listening, playing her fingers over the bracelet before desire overcame caution. “Just for a second,” she told Sirus, placing the bracelet on her wrist and fumbling with the clasp. “There,” she said, extending her arm and angling the wrist so the rubies caught the light. “As if it were made for me, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” Sirus agreed softly.
“Here, girl.” Tekela turned and presented her back to Lizanne. “Put the necklace on me.”
Lizanne glanced at Sirus, who gave a nod of assent, then took the necklace and carefully fastened it around the girl’s neck. She laughed and whirled about in delight, the jewels glittering. Lizanne had to admit she did look fairly stunning. A view evidently shared by Sirus, who stared in unabashed fascination.
“What’s this!” a booming voice echoed through the maze of curiosities accompanied by heavy and rapid footsteps. A very large man soon hove into view, advancing towards them with a purposeful stride, his bearded face flushed an angry red. Lizanne guessed his age at somewhere past fifty though the way he moved indicated a considerable vitality. “What are you doing, boy!” he demanded of Sirus. “This is not a playground.”
“Father . . .” Sirus stammered. “I-I was . . .”
“Fawning, boy!” The large man jabbed a finger at Sirus before turning his glare on Tekela. “That’s what you were doing.”
Tekela seemed utterly unconcerned by the fellow’s anger, smiling and standing on tiptoe to peck a kiss to his cheek. “Hello, Uncle Diran.” She stood back, adopting a regal pose in her finery. “Don’t I look marvellous?”
Diran issued a low, rumbling sound that put Lizanne in mind of a well-stoked boiler. However, Tekela must have had some hold on his heart for his tone was more measured when he said, “Indeed you do. Now take those off before a guard happens by and shoots you.”
Tekela responded with one of her best pouts but dutifully beckoned Lizanne forward to divest her of the jewels. “Pity there’s no photostatist on hand.” She sighed as Sirus hastily returned the items to their cabinet. “I should have liked an image of myself suitably adorned for once. You should see the drab beads Father makes me wear.”
“Your father is deserving of more gratitude,” Diran snapped in rebuke, his glower gradually softening under her wounded frown. “Come on,” he said in a resigned tone, striding off towards the doorway and gesturing for them to follow. “As you’re here you may as well have some lunch.”
He led them from the vaults, standing with arms folded and face stern whilst Sirus locked the doors, then proceeded via an elegant marble staircase to the upper floor. “New maid?” he asked Tekela, nodding at Lizanne. “Hope she lasts longer than the last one.”
“Oh,” Tekela turned a judgemental glance on Lizanne, “so far she’s proving tolerable enough.”
The room he led them to was part office and part workshop, though considerably more ordered than Jermayah’s den of cluttered knick-knacks. A bench near the window held a number of diagrams, all neatly arranged side by side and, sitting in the middle, an intricate device of some sort. A device of numerous cogs and gears that would have fit neatly into a box Lizanne had seen recently. Before she could get a closer look, however, Diran ordered Sirus to clear the bench and the device was swiftly consigned to a locked cabinet along with all the diagrams.
“Go and tell the porter to bring us some sandwiches,” Diran instructed his son. “Ham, I think. And a selection of cakes for our guest.”
After Sirus had gone he settled into the leather chair behind his desk and reached for a pipe. “So, how’s your father?” he enquired, piling tobacco into the bowl. “Haven’t seen him in an age.”
“Scribbling away as always,” Tekela replied, taking a spare chair and smothering a yawn. “He sends his regards, of course.”
“As I send mine.” Diran held a lit match to the tobacco and reclined, smoke billowing as his gaze took on a more serious cast. “You know my son’s in love with you, I suppose?”
Tekela stiffened a little. “As his many poems would seem to indicate.”
“Coming out in a few months, aren’t you? Dare say there’ll be more poems in the offing, from more appropriate authors.”
“Provided Father doesn’t persist in dressing me in rags.”
“It’ll be hard on Sirus, seeing you on the arm of another.”
“I have never encouraged him. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“And yet here you are, feeding his obsession.”
Tekela shrugged. “I wanted to see the jewels.”
Diran exhaled a cloud of smoke, shaking his head. “Never able to walk past a mirror. Just like your mother.”
Lizanne saw Tekela stiffen yet further, her tone taking on an icy quality as she replied, “Is that a topic you really wish to explore, Uncle?”
The subsequent silence stretched as they regarded each other through the haze of pipe-smoke. Lizanne saw how Tekela’s hands had bunched into small, angry fists in her lap. What is it between these two?
“The
re will be no more poems,” Diran said finally. “I’m sending Sirus to Corvus. A vacancy has opened up in the Imperial Archives. In time, and with luck, he’ll find a more suitable recipient for his verse.”
“I sincerely hope he does.” Tekela got to her feet. “I shan’t be staying for lunch, after all, Uncle. Say good-bye to Sirus for me. And pass on my best wishes for his future endeavours.”
—
Tekela was silent for most of the ride back, staring at nothing as the cab rattled over the cobbles. Lizanne resisted the urge to ask for clarification of her conversation with Diran, knowing it would risk indulging in yet more sentiment. The game is nearly over, she reminded herself.
As if reading her thoughts Tekela stirred from her torpor, speaking in dull Eutherian, “That was it wasn’t it? The device on the bench.”
“I believe so.”
“So you plan to steal it, I assume?”
Lizanne evaded the question. Revealing her intentions would be an excessive risk at this juncture. “You should prepare yourself to reveal our agreement to your father in the next few days,” she said instead. “Once my mission is complete, there will be no room for delay.”
“He’ll be angry.” Tekela’s voice betrayed only slight concern at the prospect. “Being forced to abandon his studies and his plots.”
“I expect so. Though he’ll have little choice once the Cadre learn of our activities, as they surely will before long.”
“How will it be done? Getting us to Feros safely?”
“It’s better if you don’t know. However, you should have a bag packed and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
Tekela nodded, her listlessness dissipating now as the joy of the game reasserted itself. Lizanne found herself unable to meet the girl’s gaze for the rest of the journey.
Back at the house she returned to her allotted chores with customary diligence, though the work-load had increased since Rigan had as yet failed to return from his trip to the Custom House. “He’ll be in some dock-side tavern,” Meeram said at the evening meal. “Palling around with sailors and pestering them for stories.”